


Steal My Body Home

by mellowsilver (headwired)



Category: Beck (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headwired/pseuds/mellowsilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Los Angeles, 1993. Long-suffering Angie is at a yard party with Joe, a boyfriend who is oblivious to her fading affection. An encounter with the eccentric oddball musician who plays nonsensical songs on his guitar starts a game-changing chain of events, including an impulsive favour, some clashing of personalities and a Billboard hit single.</p><p>THIS IS AN ENTIRELY FICTIONAL PIECE OF WRITING. Some very basic facts are stretched by creative licence, and no part of this writing is intended to cause offence or be at all representative.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reeses Guy

**Author's Note:**

> Although this story was initially written to satisfy a purely relaxed attempt at fanfiction, I quickly began to pressure myself to put some effort into the plot and narrative style. Hence I've also striven to make this story and its characters as realistic as I can; Angie is sometimes self-centred and pessimistic. But she is also often pragmatic and funny, which I hope adds to her charm. Joe is written as an equally flawed partner in a failing relationship. I found Beck very difficult to write, but that's all part of the challenge!  
> Just as the characters are flawed, so too is this story, but I thought if I don't post it soon, I never will.
> 
> EDITED AND REPOSTED - sorry, made some changes to what I'd already posted, so some catching up might be required!

It was Joe who insisted I come to this stranger's backyard show, because his creepy perma-drunk friend Howard was there. Howard played drums for a godawful funk-punk band whose name I actively erased from my memory long ago, but there were other people who were also making the most of the generator and stepping up to plug something or other into the battered Peavey amplifier, which was enshrined amongst three beer kegs. Someone spotted Thurston Moore, which ramped up the excitement a bit, and the crowd swelled to several dozen twenty-somethings in ripped jeans and variations on a bowl cut.

I was disgruntled with Joe anyway, and Alice had already left to babysit her brother’s kid, so I had planted myself on a plastic deckchair which was obnoxiously placed right in front of the assembled people, squeezed in between them and the wooden pallet stage. Sunglasses and a baseball cap jammed down over my face, there was no way I was going to give him the satisfaction of having me hang off his arm and simper; a hip flask of gin and a litre of lemonade kept me adequately amenable. All the same, I ensured Howard's band was long gone before settling down to observe the rest.

Someone came up to the mic and sang something so dreadfully forlorn that I almost nodded off, and a tall girl did a bad Alice in Chains cover (or were they one and the same?) but my attention was piqued at last by a small guy in a gaudy, orange Reeses t-shirt, who half-played and half-thumped an acoustic guitar that was strung around his neck with a piece of cord and smothered in ironic stickers. His hair was on the longer end of the bowl-cut spectrum, a soft golden bob that kept swinging in front of his eyes, especially when he pulled a harmonica from his pocket and hooted away on it at an impressive speed. Murmurs of assent carried across the large group of people watching, growing into full-blown cheering when, after two songs on the guitar, one on the harmonica, and one on both, he tripped off the stage and high-fived some friends. The hum of the generator ceased, signalling the end of the live acts, and someone turned up a boombox at the other end of the yard.

'There you are.' A detached voice sighed from somewhere above me, and I flipped my sunglasses up to see Joe hovering behind the deckchair with an expression of reproval.

I tucked my hipflask into the waistband of my shorts.

'Help me with this, will you?' He held the big plastic bottle of lemonade while I folded up the deckchair and leaned it against a fence. I analysed his stance on the few steps back to where he stood, trying to assert whether he was now annoyed with me in return. His squareish face was impassive though, his heavy dark fringe obscuring any indication his eyebrows might have held. Feeling slightly guilty for leaving him to what was probably guaranteed to have been conversational suicide, I took his hand and tried to make a show of solidarity.

'That last guy was so weird. A total freak show.' Joe commented, and I promptly remembered my annoyance within ten seconds of forgetting it, and dropped his hand. Howard popped up next to us, and I groaned inwardly.

'Yeah. Kinda shit if you ask me.'

'Nobody did.' I replied sharply. 'I'm going home. Are you guys staying?'

Joe shrugged. 'I guess so, if Howard and Sam are.' He glanced at Howard, who popped the tab on his fourth beer and raised it with a leery wink. Gross.

'Fine. Make sure someone stays sober enough to drop you home, okay? I need the keys.'

'Sure.'

Joe dropped the keys into my hand, clumsily kissed my cheek and promptly wandered off to join whoever was playing beer pong by the pool. I tossed them around in the palm of my hand and scanned my peripherals to see if there was a door out the back of the yard, but there wasn't; I'd walked through the house on my way in, but the last thing I wanted now was to bump into the host (Pete? Pat?) or anyone else who necessitated painful small talk. Nobody was nearby, and the only onlookers were a female couple getting down to some hanky panky next to the barbecue, so I took a chance and scaled the back fence. My knees hit the scrubby grass and my baseball cap fell off, but the leap had been successful. Suddenly I realised I still wasn't alone, as a hand attached to a skinny arm picked my cap up out of the dirt and brushed it off a bit.

'You don't like it in there?' Reeses Guitar Thumper drawled and handed it back to me.

I shook my head before replacing my cap. 'My boyfriend's being a dick. And it's not really my scene.' I looked past him towards his companions who sat on three more plastic chairs beneath a mango tree, smoking what appeared to be a joint. 'Not that... I mean, I liked the music. But I don't really know anyone.'

Upon closer inspection, Reeses Guy looked about nineteen, twenty at most. He was almost exactly my height, and his face had a wide-eyed, childish quality. His cheeks were such a prominent rosy pink that he looked for all the world as though he'd just been slapped.

'Neither do I.' He spoke with a surprisingly deep, nasal voice and had a manner of unhurried thoughtfulness. I glanced quizzically from him, to his stoned companions and back again. 'Well, I only met these guys this afternoon. But we get along just fine.'

My gaze slid back to one of the guys in the chairs. 'I bet that pot is fine.'

'Do you want some?'

'Sure. Why not.' The joint was duly passed around to me. 'Thanks. I should, uh... I was on my way home. But I liked the stuff you played.'

'Thanks. Not many people do.' He beamed suddenly and his blue doe-eyes shone, the childish face creasing wryly.

'No problem.' I raised a hand to say goodbye and unfolded my sunglasses as I meandered away, but turned back again as a thought struck me. 'Hang on. When are you playing next?'

'Probably, like, never. But if you see the name Beck on a flyer anytime, that's me.’

'As in Jeff? Of the Yardbirds?'

'Yeah, but it's my first name. Beck Hansen. I don’t know if you _will_ see a flyer… I don’t make them. Sometimes my friends do and don’t tell me, so…'

'I'll keep an eye out.' I nodded, slid my sunglasses back on and made my way back to the car. It only took another minute or two before I planted myself in the driver's seat and turned the key in the ignition, but by that time my mind was already racing onto the rest of my evening. With Joe now blessedly absent, I was going to microwave a curry and watch some back to back David Attenborough documentaries, regardless of the tikka masala smell that would permeate the entire apartment and likely make Joe retch as soon as he opened the door. He hated Indian food, and I compulsively indulged every time I could get away with it.

 

-

 

Joe stumbled in at four in the morning, only an hour after I myself had retreated from the sofa to bed. I still made out as though it had been an intolerable disturbance, and refused to relinquish the duvet from my side of the bed.

It was true I had been fast asleep, but now I was entirely lucid, and my eyelids felt none of the heaviness that allowed a return to that state. I focused on the fingers of my own hand on the pillow in front of me, listening acutely as Joe quietly undressed and collapsed onto the mattress beside my back.

'Gee?' Not now. I was not going to make conversation now, when he was still half-drunk and probably stoned too. 'Angie?' I kept my breathing slow and snapped my eyes shut as he leant over my shoulder, but his breath didn't whiff of alcohol.

Alright. Perhaps I'd humour him, and play the good girlfriend.

'Hmm?'

'Oh... did I wake you?' He paused. 'Sorry. Love you.'

There it was, those last two words. They had always been a comfort to me, and still were in a way, but these days they also gave me a sort of metaphorical itch, the kind you get from a rash that spreads and spreads. An immune response. It's not hard to articulate in real terms: he loved me, and I loved him once, but now I was out of love, annoyed with myself and torn between irritation and pity.

Good job the rent was in my name, I often thought, and of course it was, because he never kept a job for more than two months together. And I _hated_ being the sensible one, the one who was responsible for such a practical necessity. Once I'd been the adventurous half, the partner with all the crazy stories to tell about acid trips in the desert and homemade baking-soda explosives in the garage. Remembering all that and being the _real_ adult was getting really old, really fast. I was only twenty two. Small wonder then that the live-in boyfriend situation wasn't working out any more.

My train of thought veered back to the yard party, and Reeses Guy/Beck. He seemed interesting. Interesting enough to warrant the attention of Thurston Moore, too; if it wasn't him the man was there for, I hadn't a clue who else, considering the relative mediocrity of the rest. I tried to summon a picture of his face into my mind's eye, disparate elements of mannerisms converging with the round pair of blue eyes, not that watery, greyish version most people had, but an alarmingly bright one, and that straw-coloured mop of hair that framed a similarly round face. The image evaporated as Joe sneezed sleepily, an intrusive reminder of where I was. I briefly considered whether fixating upon other members of the opposite sex whilst in bed with your boyfriend counted as bad karma, before dropping off altogether and relinquishing consciousness to fatigue.

 

-

 

My alarm rang mercifully at ten, compared to its usual 7am torture when I had a full day at work during the week. Mondays were half days while a couple of interns did all the administrative chores in the morning, and I usually sauntered into the studio in time to pick up the week’s first genuinely important commissions. It had only been a month or so since I had been one of those interns who picked up everyone's dirty work, but now I was a graduate creative at a graphic design company, and couldn't help bursting a little bit with pride every time I saw my name embossed upon the door of my workshop. Meanwhile, Joe was currently slogging it out for minimum wage at a mail processing warehouse and getting up every morning at six, so I woke up alone on Mondays, and my lazy breakfast was a solo affair.

The haze of pollution had risen substantially by the time I drove out into the valley, and the sunshine burnt through the remaining clouds with characteristic LA ferocity, completely at odds with the rest of the laconic West Coast stereotype. A Television cassette in the stereo kept me company, and I relished having the roof down on my dad's old Ford, but the drive always felt far too short in such pleasant conditions, and I parked up within half an hour of leaving home.

'Angie, how's it going?' Max greeted me brightly and handed over a styrofoam cup of coffee as I walked through the makeshift reception. Classic good intern behaviour - oh, it was such a joy being the recipient and no longer the provider.

'Not bad, Max, thanks. How was your weekend?'

'Amazing!' His brown curls bobbed up and down as his eyes flashed between his word processor, the coffee machine and me, ever the eager puppy. 'I saw Metallica at the Forum. I think James Hetfield made eye contact with me at one point.'

Max went to a lot of concerts – big ones, ones I also liked and others I privately thought were a bit shit. To be fair to him, Metallica fell into a more positive category, and I was happy to watch the grainy footage he shot on his camcorder before closeting myself away in my studio and willing the right sort of ideas to waft into the room and match themselves up with my projects.

I liked my job, I really did. But that grey cloud of financial responsibility made it feel a little more restrictive than I would have preferred. I could sustain myself, sure, but if I was fired the very next day, Joe would end up in a squat because of that. This fact did not help the way I perceived our relationship.

Once I was fully absorbed in the drawing board, time usually passed in a flash, but there was a disconcerting decrease in the number of commissions recently, and I found myself with nothing to do at two in the afternoon. Not being bound to my desk by obligation, I took the opportunity to go home early.

Howard was sprawled on the sofa when I got in the door, much to my displeasure.

'What are you doing here?' I tried to keep the irritation out of my voice as I dumped my jacket over the back of the armchair.

His gaze slid from the television to me and back again as he replied 'Joe let me in. As always.'

 _As always._ Yes, that was about right; Howard was hanging around, rolling his vile little cigarettes and drawing lewd doodles on the faces in the newspapers. You may presume (correctly) that this was an all too common occurrence.

I dumped my bag on the kitchen table and found Joe poking around under the bed in our room, quite obviously in search of my weed, gathering from the pipe that rested on top of the sheets.

‘You’re home early.’ He commented without turning around, but I ignored him.

'Howard's here again.’

'Hm? Oh, yeah. He is.'

'I don't like coming home to find him stinking out my mom's cushions every evening. Does he really have to come over so often?'

Joe's head made an appearance over the top of the bedspread. 'Don't start, Angie. I know you don't like him. But he lives with his sister.'

'Yes, and I live with you.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

I stepped forward a few paces, so I faced him properly. He finally stood up, and I had his undivided attention. 'We get on each other's nerves occasionally, don't we? But we put up with each other. Howard's gonna have to put up with Mel more often.'

'He can't even bring girls home.'

'What girls?' I snorted. 'And he can't bring them back here either, so that's irrelevant.' But before Joe said anything else, the penny dropped. 'Woah... oh my god. Has he been shagging women on the sofa?'

Joe squirmed visibly, and I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. 'Well, I don't-'

'Stop. I can't stand the thought.' The tin of weed was peeking out from under the bedspread, and I made a move to grab it, but he was faster, and practically sat on it in haste.

'Please! I'm sorry, I'll tell him to leave. And that he can't bring anyone else back. I just wanted to borrow a bit.'

'You can borrow some when you've paid me back for that repair on the bike exhaust.' I smiled slightly; he looked vaguely ridiculous, sat on his hands with his hair sticking in all directions.

'Okay. But for god’s sake, stop eating curries in the living room.'

'Alright. I deserved that one. Get up, you lump.'

Joe pouted comically. 'No.'

'I'll wrestle you for it.'

‘I dare you.'

I grappled with him for a few minutes on the bed, but as he tickled me under my shirt, I glimpsed Howard's close-set eyes watching voyeuristically from the doorway.

‘You sick fuck!' I sat upright and pulled my shirt back down, furious. 'Get out!'

'Howard, man...' Even Joe was pissed off now, I could tell. 'You need to go.'

And like the utter creep he was, he winked. He actually winked and slinked off without another comment.

'Jesus.'

Joe got to his feet again, the moment over, and I prised open the lid of the tin. 'Go check he’s left without nicking anything, and then we’ll roll one.'

'I thought...?'

'Nah. Fuck it, I want some too now. I want to forget those squinty reptilian eyes.'

 

-

 

_Beck didn't recognise that girl's face - the freckled, characterful one that pulled an unconsciously disgruntled expression, as she noticed the dust and dirt adorning her knees and palms. This wasn't unusual – at least, not recognising her; the entrance style was less than common on the other hand. But due to the transitory nature of the city, people came and went with such frequency that any sort of scene in LA was inevitably short-lived. He'd lied about not knowing other people though. It was true his companions were relative strangers, but he'd wanted to get out from under the curious gaze of everyone else. Sometimes it was admittedly beneficial, because their generosity helped him get by, but it was also beginning to be unnerving. He was fine with people like Tom and Karl wanting to collaborate, that was all in the interest of art. But Beck was thoroughly reluctant to let anyone leech money out of the songs on his clumsily recorded tapes yet, and the sort of people who wanted to do exactly that were already hanging around, turning up at his poor excuses for shows and occasionally trying to buy him a beer. Besides all that, normal punters just happened to be fascinated too, and Beck was unmistakeable, even in a trucker cap and sunglasses, as the baby-faced, skinny-limbed guy with an unruly halo of golden hair, who spoke like J Mascis' little brother but with substantially more odd subject material._

_Anyway, that afternoon. He was more talkative usually, but at the time the late summer sun and dust were both intoxicating and exhausting. At least the weed was doing its job, and it finally wasn’t too difficult to casually converse with another brand new face, despite that face’s undeniable attractiveness. After a few sentences, an easy exchange, she was gone, jangling her car keys as she strode away._

_The windfall mangoes on the ground were fermenting, which made the already fuggy air under the tree smell sweet, and the music in the yard switched from grooving to an all-out funk party, and Beck was already tired. It was unlikely anyone was going to be around to give him a lift home, and he'd stupidly foregone bringing any money, so he said goodbye to the sleepy stoners and started the long walk back, vaguely registering regret at having to turn in the opposite direction to the girl._

_Now he'd really need to put out flyers._


	2. Free Jazz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angie encounters the cute, guitar-bashing prodigy for a second time, and makes a spontaneous decision. As is becoming a habit, Joe is the last thing she takes into account, and she risks alienating him in the process. As for Beck, he's just the grateful, innocent party, but even he knows something's up.

I managed to spot the name the very next week after, while I was out with Alice for the last time before she went backpacking to Europe, getting new shoelaces and some second-hand paperbacks. The dog-eared flyer was slightly soggy from the previous night’s rain shower, and stapled to a telegraph pole opposite the bookstore. Beck.

After Joe's comments at the yard show, I doubted he'd want to go and watch again, but there was nothing stopping me. I duly noted down the date (tomorrow night), time (6pm) and venue (Wright's Bar). _Wow,_ I thought, _since when did Wright's host anything other than ten-piece free jazz improv?_

‘This dude that played at that yard show. It was after you left. He was... really interesting. Funny.’

‘Funny haha, or funny peculiar?'

I smirked. 'Both, actually.'

'This one? Beck?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. I met him afterwards, but we only spoke for a little bit. I was desperate to get home.’

‘Tomorrow… damn. Shame I'm going away, I'd join you otherwise. You gonna go alone?’

‘I guess I’ll have to. I mean, can you see Joe coming to something like that?’ I turned back to face her and the store, and grinned. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it whilst you’re ascending the Matterhorn, or whatever it is.’

‘Oh my god, you know I’m not doing any mountaineering. It’s a train that happens to be going through the Alps.’

‘You lucky bastard.’ I elbowed her gently. ‘I’ll miss you, you know, more than you think. You’d better take a shitload of photos.’

‘You’re daft. Of course I will. I would say good luck with Joe, but I don’t think you’ll need it. You guys are on track now, right? I'm still going by what you told me last week.’

I nodded mutely, privately wondering if I’d ever pluck up the courage to do something about my current predicament. It seemed unlikely if even Alice didn’t know about it, and wasn’t around to browbeat me into facing up to it.

‘Yeah, well, good. I’m not sure I can face a repeat of the New Year.’

I shuddered. That party had been unbearable, mostly because Joe and I had an argument over who was invited and eventually just refused to talk to one another, which was hardly conducive to entertaining our respective friends. It had been a bad week after Christmas. We ended up retreating to different sides of the apartment block just to watch the New Year’s fireworks.

‘What do you think of…’ I paused to pore over the titles in the cardboard boxes of books. ‘Margaret Atwood?’

‘Pass.’

‘You’ll have a lot of long journeys to become intimately familiar with her, I’m sure. Fifty cents.’ I pressed the book into her hand.

‘Isn’t there any spy stuff…’

‘Ian Fleming?’

‘Basic, but yeah.’

We dug some more, paid for the small pile of books and cleared off back home. Alice was packed already, and free to hang out, so I drove her back to the apartment, and we spent her last evening watching her favourite Bond movies, trying and failing to make martinis.

 

-

 

Despite my reservations, nobody complained the next evening when the diminutive man hopped onto the stage between a drink break and tune-ups, banging out a routine of four or five faux-country slide jams mashed up with daft phrases. It was slightly different to the yard show; no harmonica, and less spoken-word stuff (even the orange Reeses shirt was replaced by a more subdued navy sweater), but as I scanned the sparse audience from my spot at the bar, the majority seemed unfazed by the eccentric performance, and a few people even sang along in recognition at some of the silliest, most memorable lines. The more carefully I watched, the more it became clear that he was an expert at gauging what people wanted to hear – and tonight, it was comedy, not high-brow slam poetry.

Joe was out biking with his cousin in the valley, and despite all my logic telling me that it was fine to let him know where I was going, that he shouldn't have a problem, gut instinct spurred me to lie and claim a quiet night in with a movie. And now here I was instead, huddled at the back of Wright's, nursing a gin & tonic and curiously observing Beck, or what I could see of him when his hair wasn't completely obscuring his rosy face. He was popular, it was obvious, probably more so than he'd been at the yard show; when the jazz musicians retook the stage and he had to step down, the smattering of applause was enthusiastic and accompanied by several shrill whistles of approval. He hoisted the string of his guitar over his shoulder and balanced it on a bar stool before accepting what looked like a free beer and basket of fries. I dithered a little, feeling unexpectedly shy, but the gin had fortified my confidence and I scooted a few seats along.

'Hey, that was a cool show.'

Beck turned to face me, recognition flickering across his features and forming the preternaturally surprised expression I’d already come to expect.

‘You’re the girl who jumped the fence.’

‘Yeah, that’s me… I saw your name on a flyer after all.’ I paused. ‘I’m Angie, by the way.’

He offered one of his slightly wonky smiles and watched my gaze travel over his guitar.

I couldn’t help myself, and blurted out ‘You know Thurston Moore was watching you at that yard show, right?’

‘Uh huh.’ Beck nodded, and broke eye contact for the first time. ‘That’s pretty scary. I mean, wouldn’t it scare you? Not that it isn’t really encouraging, but it’s also kind of intimidating.’

‘I can’t say I’ve ever been in that situation.’ I laughed. ‘I don’t play guitar, mostly for lack of effort. But I listen a lot.’

‘Well, they’re not necessarily mutually exclusive,’ he replied, speaking slowly in the way that was clearly his natural manner, and that I was already becoming accustomed to. ‘I’ve been digging through old records forever, but I only picked up the guitar as a teenager. So seven, eight years ago, I guess. I’m twenty-three now.’

I tried my best not to look surprised and failed. This man with the face of one five years younger was, in fact, a year _older_ than me. ‘And you live in the city?’

‘Yeah, sort of. I move around a bit.’

‘What do you mean? Are you a hitchhiker?’ My mental image of a sort of neo-nomadic bowl-cut busker was solidifying.

‘No… I just live in people’s sheds, you know, that sort of thing. Sometimes I sleep in my car. Right now it’s this cabin in this guy’s yard, but I think he wants me out now.’

I blinked, and he turned to put some ketchup on his fries. ‘And in between all that?

He shrugged. ‘I put in some shifts at a video store, menial stuff. And then I get free meals here sometimes.’

I was simultaneously surprised and strangely envious, despite his grim description. At least people aren’t dependent on you when you’re semi-homeless, I considered, thinking of mine and Joe’s inconvenient situation. I wasn’t about to admit that to someone who had no other choice though. ‘Why don’t you kip on people’s couches or something?’

‘Most people I know already sleep on their own couches, or have people staying already.’ He slid the basket of fries down the bar towards me. ‘Help yourself. What do you do?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m a graphic designer, which is rarely as interesting as it sounds.’

‘Freelance?’

‘Nope, for an agency. I take commercial briefs, and I have a little studio, sort of a glorified office. It’s alright.’

‘So you couldn’t design anything like… artwork on a cassette tape?’

I laughed. ‘I don’t see why not. It’s not like freelance stuff is outlawed.’

Beck dug around in his pocket for a second and withdrew a plastic case with a tape inside, but no paper cover. ‘Draw something on a napkin.’ He suggested playfully.

‘Anything?’

‘Anything.’

‘Okaaay…’ I glanced around for a clean one, as my own was smeared with ketchup. A biro was procured from behind the bar, and I started to doodle. The free jazz group had started up, and the mellow light from the lamp above blocked out all distractions. I found myself totally immersed, as I always was when I drew for pleasure. When I was actually doing something to get paid, I never felt quite as absorbed, as that creative process wasn’t nearly so organic.

‘That’s awesome.’ He hovered at my shoulder. I grinned and handed the napkin to him with a flourish.

‘There you go. Fold the corners and it might actually envelop a tape.’ I said drily.

It was just a haphazard arrangements of squares, some filled in with childish patterns and little profiles of faces peering out from behind the odd rectangle, and all done in the blunt blue ink of the Bic pen. Beck peered at it, holding it under the lamp. His hair was all fluffed out and his childish profile was illuminated by the yellow light, giving me a faint impression of a scruffy duckling.

‘You know,’ I wondered aloud, taking another of the fries, ‘you could crash at mine, if you wanted. My boyfriend and I have an apartment. And a very comfy couch.’

‘Really?’ His eyes lit up gratefully.

‘Yeah, sure. I guess you could come over, like… how about tomorrow? And just dump your stuff.’

‘That’s amazing, thanks.’ Beck looked like he couldn’t believe his luck, although it was less charitable on my part and more driven by fascination.

‘It’s no trouble.’ I peeled another napkin away from the pile, and wrote down my address carefully, trying not to rip the tissue. ‘There you go. Do you need a ride?’

‘No, I’m good. I only have to walk a few blocks from here tonight, and then I’ll get someone to drive me down tomorrow, about midday.’ He pocketed both napkins and slung the guitar over his back with the attached cord.

‘I’ll see you then.’ I raised my glass and grinned widely, watching him raise his own hand as he sloped out of the bar. Joe wouldn’t like having an unexpected lodger, I knew, but I didn’t give a damn. Perhaps it would serve to remind him just who owned the place anyway, and that was how I reconciled myself with the risk - I was being a decent human being, whilst simultaneously getting to be around Beck, and just maybe finding satisfaction in really pissing Joe off.

 

-

 

_Wright's was a strange choice, Beck knew, but it was the only available option he had to put on any flyers within a week or two. Their audience was used to him at least, so he could be certain of avoiding a frosty reception. The people at the last place, a weird café lounge, had been plain mean, really… he could persevere there, but it wouldn’t give a very good impression._

_Miraculously, she did turn up. Angie. Despite a universal dislike for playing any sort of games, Beck pretended not to see her when he finished performing, and sat down at the other end of the bar. Mercifully, she instigated conversation, and even without the aid of hallucinogenics, she was easy company, but sparkling with the sort of dry wit and subtleties that usually went straight over other people’s heads. She was also just as alarmingly pretty as before, so he hadn’t even misremembered that._

_This was often the way things went. Beck went about his business observing almost everything in that calm manner of the naturally attentive, but perpetually gave off an impression of dreamy distraction. Consequently, when he decided he liked a girl, it was an opinion that rarely saw the light of day. In normal social situations, he felt he could afford to be irreverent, but girls required the sort of practice that you couldn't just gain through platonic camaraderie. Generally, it took a girl to actually like you back, some sort of guarantee of equal esteem. And in this case, he could put those hopes out of his head after the mention of the boyfriend. So maybe this would make things easier anyway; he hoped he wouldn’t have to feel quite the same anxieties as usual, and perhaps living around her (just the thought was vaguely thrilling) might normalise that feeling too._

_He’d also lied again. The walk was quite a lot more than just a few blocks, but Beck was reluctant to exploit Angie’s generosity any more than necessary. A man whistled across the street, a crash and a shout of laughter echoed in the distance, a cop car siren wailed plaintively: all usual sounds in this part of town at this time of night. Maybe he’d pay his brother a visit, grab some clean clothes… yeah, that would be an easier walk too. It wouldn’t take long to pack some stuff up, and Channing had a car. That would work out. Things always did._

 

-

 

Obviously Joe didn’t like it one bit. I had to tell him before Beck arrived, of course, but deliberately did so in a flippant fashion, ignoring the irritation on his face that contrasted so severely with the ‘Oh, alright then,’ that met my announcement. And then Beck did arrive, and towards me at least, there would be no repressing him.

The buzzer went off at half one, and I opened the door to see him with just his guitar over his shoulder and a canvas bag, which must have been about half his body weight, but still seemed somewhat small to contain anyone’s worldly possessions, which must have said something about his own diminutive size too.

‘Hey. Sorry I’m late… we broke down on the way and had to jack open the bonnet and hit a bit of something with a hammer.’

‘It’s fine, no problem. Come on in.’ Watching him wander into the flat, I gave it a quick visual once-over, wondering what it must look like to a stranger’s eyes; salvaged furniture surrounded by an untidy abundance of books and magazines, odd bits of my own work tacked to the walls, second-hand TV and stereo and drab blue curtains. ‘Here’s the, um… well, it’ll be your couch.’

Joe chose that moment to appear from the bedroom, and I knew he’d already forgotten someone was coming to stay. The surprise was written all over his face, and I gave him a meaningful glare.

‘Hey, how’s it going.’

It wasn’t a question and he raised a hand in greeting shortly before zooming away to busy himself with the latch on the window that we both knew was broken. I rolled my eyes, and briefly left Beck in the kitchen with a mug of coffee. Joe sidled back and manoeuvred me out the front door by my elbow, proceeding to make an unconvincing fallacy of weeding the pot plants in the stairwell.

'That musician from Pete’s yard? You’ve got to be kidding, Angie. Look at him,’ he hissed, wrenching a begonia from the soil distractedly. ‘He looks like a hobo.'

'Oh, I don't think so.' I shrugged. Privately, I thought _he's the human embodiment of a peach_. Almost on cue, I watched through the crack in the doorway as Beck peered across the kitchen table and reached into the fruit bowl, but he took some grapes from the bunch instead and popped them into his mouth absent-mindedly.

Joe snorted. ‘More like a homeless teenager. How old is he, for god’s sake?’

I glanced back to Joe and frowned. 'That’s an actual flower, Joe, you’re supposed to weed around it. He’s older than us actually, and is now my guest, so I’d rather you weren’t so rude.'

'Yes, and in case you'd forgotten, I'm your boyfriend.' He dropped the limp stem onto the floor, crossed his arms and spoke coolly, but I glimpsed an unnerving flicker of real anger in his eyes. It was this sort of ferocious masculinity he displayed from time to time that I most deplored, and I was suddenly stirred to stand my ground even more determinedly.

'And it's _still_ my apartment. You don't pay a dime towards it, not even the groceries - except for your stupid six packs. And I let you get away with it too, so do me a fucking favour and quit whining.’ Without allowing him an opportunity to reply, I marched back inside and closed the screen door behind me in a childish act of scorn.

‘I don’t think Joe is very happy I’m here.’ Beck remarked dubiously as I joined him in the kitchen again.

‘Oh, don’t worry about Joe.’ Privately, I suspected he was already suspecting my ambivalence towards him, but I thought I had better tell Beck a white lie rather than that unsavoury truth. ‘He’s a funny one. He’ll get used to it.’ I pulled out the chair opposite his and planted myself at the kitchen table. ‘You can play your music around the place whenever you want. I don’t mind. It’s preferable, even.’

Instead of nodding or responding, Beck appraised me as if he hadn’t heard what I said, the very same look of doubtful apprehension on his still face.

‘You don’t know me at all. So why did you offer to have me stay?’

‘I just wanted to be generous. And you seem… really interesting.’ I could feel my cheeks reddening at this pathetic excuse. ‘Plus you’re hardly the type to rob me during the night.’

‘What makes you think that?’ He was smiling now, and I could tell he was just needling me – either that or the compliment hadn’t fallen as flat as I’d feared.

‘Well… you haven’t before, have you?’

‘No. You’re right, I’m not a criminal. But are you sure there isn’t, like… I don’t wanna get caught up in stuff or, uh… get in the way.’ He gestured towards the window, where I could see Joe had now decided to properly weed the pots, and was frowning as he plucked a small snail from one and threw it to the floor.

‘There isn’t anything, I promise. It’s totally unrelated.’ _Please, please stay._ I caught myself before I said it, surprising myself. I thought I had no clue why I was so eager to accommodate him, but now I was getting an idea.

 

-

 

_The place fell dark when they all went to bed, and Beck stared at the glimmers of light that darted across the living room intermittently as cars on the road outside passed by. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and turned on his side on the couch, tensing as it creaked loudly. It was comfortable though, that was true. He would probably sleep better once he got used to the third different environment that month._

_What had he just walked into? It played on his mind insistently, the anxiety that he was butting into something bigger than himself. But then even just the thought of his own good fortune subdued the doubts. To hell with that obnoxious guy… as far as he could tell, it was Angie’s place after all. Apparently Joe was, for all intents and purposes, as much of a guest as him. And he wasn’t one for jealousy or competition, but Beck’s own self-justification served him a certain righteous feeling._

_His eyelids refused to droop closed. He wasn’t sleepy. He tossed and turned, but already he could tell tonight would be exhausting in its endlessness. It irked him, because so often he could drop off just slouched against a wall. But suddenly he was lucky enough to be warm and comfortable, and the opportunity was being wasted. Sod’s law._

_The fridge hummed audibly in the kitchen, and Beck threw off the blanket in defeat, wandering gingerly into the other room and flicking the light on. The tiles were chilly on his bare feet, but he was immediately distracted by the same frames on the walls that had diverted him earlier in the day. There were screen-prints, woodcuts, and even oil-painted pop art. Angie certainly knew what she was doing, and he would know – though not that he admitted that to himself often. Best to avoid the sort of inflated sense of self that he deplored; modesty came to Beck easily._

_He grabbed a glass off the draining board and poured himself some juice, resisting the urge to hover and gawp at the fridge’s comparably luxuriant contents. The drink helped, and he flicked the light out before curling up on the couch again, sipping slowly as the dim orange-grey sky outside blurred into his eyelids. Finally, he slept._


	3. Old Before My Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things settle into a routine now Beck is here to stay. Angie starts to self-analyse, with some discomfiting results, whilst good food and good music doth a good party make.

To my delight, Beck took my comment about playing music seriously. Although Joe grumbled, I often trudged through to the kitchen in the mornings for coffee accompanied by a soundtrack of Woody Guthrie, Leadbelly and the like being quietly fumbled through. He left the harmonica for when we were out, he told me, though that wasn’t often whilst he was in, as I got in from work at six and he usually returned from wherever he’d been that day about half an hour later. On the Friday night Beck didn’t return at all, but reappeared on the Saturday morning apparently fresh-faced – a garage party, he said, looking suspiciously un-hungover. And on the Sunday Joe went over to save Howard from his sister Mel’s company, which suited me just fine.

After a little closer self-analysis, I realised that I was desperate to have Beck stay for two reasons. Firstly, his company was a buffer; although Joe was actually in a worse mood for the majority of the time, I was less likely to absorb his mood via osmosis and retaliate. Having a new friend, especially a live-in one, was proving to be a welcome distraction, and I wasn’t so sure it was just because I missed Alice while she was away. Just occasionally – and this was the second reason – I made eye contact with Beck and my breath caught a little in my throat. Not that I hadn’t noticed when I first saw him, but he really was an attractive man, which was still something of an understatement. To put it simply, I had always like gentle guys, ones that had an almost feminine cuteness in their faces – it was why I liked Joe, but he had just a smidgen of this quality. Beck had it turned up to eleven, and combined with his humility and sweet nature, I was struggling to convince myself I was sensibly indifferent. Still, I reasoned, I barely knew the guy. There was time enough for that.

 

-

 

‘I’m going to see some friends tonight over in Echo Park, do you wanna come?’ Beck asked the moment I stepped through the front door after work. It was the second week since he’d moved in.

‘Sure.’ I shrugged, dumping my jacket over the back of the armchair. ‘If your friends don’t mind.’

‘They won’t, it’s kind of a case of the more the merrier. There’s a lot of us.’ He peered hopefully over the top of the book he was reading, and was sat cross-legged on the rug next to the coffee table.

‘I’ll come along.’ I grinned. ‘Have you had dinner? I picked up some pizza.’

‘Oh, I haven’t. What is it, pepperoni? Nice.’

I joined him on the rug and glanced pointedly at the four-track that sat next to him.

‘Have you been recording?’

‘Yeah, just little bits. I’ll probably take it with me tonight, you know, ‘cause people say funny things sometimes.’

I nodded, gingerly taking a bite of pizza. ‘Where were you today?’

‘The video store again. It was totally dead, seems like nobody wants their Spanish TV serials today.’

‘Is that what you sell?’

‘That and obscure pornography. I don’t sell it though, I alphabetise it.’

I stifled a laugh. ‘Must be a roaring trade.’

‘You’d be surprised. There was a woman last week looking for, and I quote, anything involving office furniture.’

‘Jesus. That’s quite a fetish.’

‘For real.’ Beck grinned, taking another slice of pizza from the box. ‘I’m gonna get a beer, do you want one?’

‘Maybe not. I’ll drive us this evening.’

‘Okay.’

He got to his feet and I inspected the pile of magazines on the coffee table, which had more than doubled in height over the past week, although I couldn’t remember buying anything new. These weren’t new either; they were mostly dog-eared, and a few had pages ripped out, but they were all music magazines like Flipside, Maximumrocknroll, and some ancient British music papers.

I brandished a copy of Melody Maker curiously as Beck came to sit down again. ‘Did you get these?’

‘Oh, yeah. Some of them are from the library, some from friends’ houses. Whatever people will give me or swap with me. Sorry, I left a few scattered around.’

‘No, it’s fine. I like them.’ I flicked through the one I was holding and came across a double page spread of the Ramones. ‘Wow, this is an early interview. Must have been about ’77.’

‘Yeah, and don’t they look just as scrappy? It’s great. I love how they look so punk and badass but did Beach Boys covers.’

‘And even then, it was in double time. Probably on three different types of speed.’ I chuckled. ‘Aren’t they still going?’

‘I think they did Lollapalooza last year, though I’m not totally sure. Do you have any records in there?’ He nodded towards the stack of records inside the TV cabinet.

‘Hmm… I think so.’ I crawled over to check the spines. ‘Just singles, no LPs.’

‘You should bring them tonight, we can stick some on the stereo.’

‘Appropriate. What time do you wanna head over?’

‘Soon, I guess. I wasn’t told any particular time but we can turn up whenever.’

I got up to go change, closed my bedroom door and started to pull my dungarees off, when it occurred to me that I had no idea when Joe would be home this evening. I felt bad heading out before he even got back, but then I reasoned it was better than feeling obliged to invite him along too. I grabbed a slightly fresher pair of jeans, turned and flopped down onto the bed, mulling over my state of mind as I pulled them on. Surely it wasn’t right to be so keen to avoid my own boyfriend… no, obviously it wasn’t. But it was hardly news to me that our relationship wasn’t the healthiest. And yet, I knew something like this would rile him up, especially as he was already bitter about having Beck stay.

Bending down to peer into the mirror on my bedside table, I scrutinised my features for a moment. _Two-faced_ , a small voice suggested. I shook my head almost imperceptibly at myself, frowning; I thought better of myself than that. If I was going to deny it though, then I had to admit to myself that truly, I couldn’t summon up the effort to really care about Joe’s reaction. The indifference was the real issue – it wasn’t that I even felt actively ambivalent towards him. I simply didn’t care.

 

-

 

I yanked the handbrake on my car as Beck and I parked up opposite a low-rise condo on an unremarkable street in Silverlake.

‘This is the place?’

‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I can hear the music from here, so now I’m positive.’

‘Okay.’ I retrieved the records from the back seat and we crossed the street. Even from there I could see that the party had already spilled out onto the front porch, where a garden table and four plastic chairs were occupied by a girl and three guys, all apparently dressed as various famous people and characters. The one who looked like Rick Astley on acid hi-fived Beck as we walked in, and in the hallway stood Freddie Mercury’s doppelganger.

‘I’m sensing a pattern here…’ I muttered to Beck.

‘Me too. I think someone forgot to give me the details.’

‘You could have been Gene Autry.’

‘My one and only opportunity. I’m heartbroken.’

‘Huh!’ I tittered, only half-listening as I strained to hear what was playing in the kitchen; Stooges. We burst into the room and found all the people Beck knew.

‘Man, you came!’ An Ozzy lookalike threw his hands up. ‘Did you bring your guitar?’

Beck shook his head, smiling. ‘No, we brought better music than that.’

‘Who’s this?’ Ozzy scrutinised me.

‘I’m Angie, I’m… a friend.’

‘Charlie.’ He waved a greeting, and pointed towards each person around the kitchen. ‘That’s Greg…’ Johnny Cash grinned at me from the sink, ‘…Jules…’, Debbie Harry, nursing an odd-looking steel flagon, raised a hand, ‘…and Ruth.’ Even stood closest to me, I didn’t recognise her getup, but it looked punky. Apart from her, I already knew I wouldn’t remember anyone’s name whilst they were dressed up.

‘What music did you bring?’ Debbie Harry piped up.

‘I dug out some Ramones singles.’ I placed the records on the kitchen table, eyeing the crate of beer by Ozzy’s feet.

‘Oh, awesome.’ She flicked through the sleeves, and Beck rummaged through the crate.

‘Angie, are you sure you’re not gonna drink?’

‘No… I need one now. I’ll have whatever’s there.’

I caught the can he threw to me and popped the tab as Jules excitedly engaged me with questions – why hadn’t we dressed up, where did I get the singles, what else did I listen to? I could feel my cheeks flushing already from the drink, and I could feel myself relaxing. I _liked_ these people, and the way they welcomed me. On my third beer, we reached the piano in the corner by the back porch, and I couldn’t resist hammering out some faux-Jerry Lee Lewis when Beck surreptitiously placed his four track on the piano lid, and pressed record.

By one in the morning at least twenty people were scattered around a flaming brazier in the backyard, half a dozen spinning drunkenly around to ‘Sheena is a Punk Rocker’. I tore myself away from a poker game when I spotted Beck sat on the step of the back porch, on his own for a rare moment. Everyone wanted a piece of time with him this evening, and even though stoicism was his natural state, he actually looked tired.

‘Doing okay?’

‘Yeah, pretty good.’ His wonky smile returned.

I sat down beside him, and we clinked cans. The scene of the party was sharply thrown into relief by the yellow flickering light of the fire, and the people milling around gave off a faintly golden glow.

‘This has been really great. I wasn’t very confident about coming, but everyone is so easy. I shouldn’t have worried.’

‘I’m glad it changed your mind.’ Beck stretched his legs out across the wooden planks of the back porch. ‘I don’t know many of these people very well but Charlie has been around since I was about eighteen I think. He likes holding these…’ he searched for the right word for a few seconds, ‘… get-togethers. I haven’t been over to this place for a long, long while. I kind of lost touch with a lot of people when I went East.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘I got a Greyhound bus to New York, mostly for the experience. I ended up playing music in some very funny places… I’ll probably go back one day. The people aren’t much different, a little more highly strung perhaps, kinda unpredictable. Not like these bums. I can trust _them_.’ He chuckled.

‘I grew up in Chicago, I haven’t been to New York much.’

‘Chicago, really?’

‘Yeah. My parents still live there. I don’t mind the city, I saw some great shows. But I knew I wanted to go to college out of state.’

‘I think I might have been there… through there…’ he squinted in thought, ‘at some point, probably.’

‘Prolific traveller, you are. I can’t believe you just don’t know.’

‘Nope. I should, shouldn’t I? That’ll teach me not to pay attention for every mile.’

‘Don’t dwell on it. It only makes you feel old before your time.’

‘I’d love to be old before my time.’ Beck replied wistfully, and I laughed.

‘Drink up.’ I elbowed him, gently, downing the rest of my own beer. ‘I’m hungry. I don’t wanna raid Charlie’s fridge, I’d feel bad. We could go and see if there’s anywhere open twenty-four hours? I think I saw one place a couple of blocks away.’

‘Alright, I guess I’m hungry too.’

We said our goodbyes and I retrieved my records – except the one playing, which I told Charlie he could keep. I dawdled on the sidewalk as Beck ran back for his four track, watching a couple of ratty, unidentifiable animals poking through some trash on the other side of the road. Their squeaking was the only sound in the neighbourhood until the gate behind me opened and shut with a jarring clang, and they ran off into a dark crevice out of the streetlamp’s gaze.

‘Tonight is the only time you will ever see Debbie Harry getting off with Johnny Cash.’ Beck chuckled as we made our way to the car.

‘No shit!’ I said. ‘Blondie could have been so different.’

 

-

 

We plumped for fried chicken eventually, and just sat in the car outside the apartment for half an hour, talking. It must have been at least two, by which point I was struggling to keep my eyes open.

‘I’m gonna do another gig on Saturday, I think.’ Beck said sleepily. ‘I don’t usually leave it this long.’

‘Yeah?’ Today was the early hours of Thursday. It had been almost two weeks since Beck had played last.

‘Uh huh. Probably not Wright’s though. Maybe one of those coffee bars, there’s usually a few more people I know at them.’

‘That’ll be good. I’ll take my intern along from work, but my best friend is still travelling. And I’ll ask Joe too.’ I added, feigning consideration.

‘Hmm… I doubt he’ll come, somehow.’

 _Damn._ ‘There’s not much hiding it, is there?’ I replied sheepishly.

Beck fiddled absent-mindedly with the textile lining on the car door. ‘He’s not subtle, I’ll say that. I’m not bothered. That is, if you’re not.’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t sound particularly loyal, but no. I’m not.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for remaining impartial.’ He mumbled, having moved on to digging through the cassettes in my glovebox.

‘I know.’ I frowned, my eyes glazing over as my mind started another cyclical debate over the moral implications. The spell was broken as Beck tapped loudly on the gearstick.

‘Angie? I thought you had a Minutemen album in here.’

‘Oh. No, I think it wore out. I need to get another. Do you really want to listen to heavy stuff at this hour? I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.’

‘Well, I’m not really feeling the Stones’ eighties albums, but each to their own I guess.’

‘That’s Joe’s, not mine.’ I grimaced at the other cassettes in the glovebox. ‘Gross. Don’t tar me with the same brush.’

‘Emotional Rescue wasn’t so bad, I don’t know.’

‘Ewww…’ I kicked the car door open. ‘I’m heading inside. Come on.’


End file.
